there is a specific warmth I recall oozing from yourself all the times I bleared against you. A resolute transfer of defeat: to get back to the point of loss, to accept whilst they talk about maturity coming along when it is only the most primitive impulse, to have my skin fuse with your nails, to devote and offer my ulcers not to my very own fingers, to devote and offer and the remorse, to get back and get back and get back and get back to the point when the void flashes
to ask you pain
and the eyes to water
like a mouth by a mouthful
like a cunt
beneath you.